The Last Time I Smoked Pot. I Think.

I had a gig at The Comic Strip in New York the first year I did standup. My friend Melanie came to that show. She and I went to the same university in Paris and after graduation she moved to London. I visited her there but hadn’t seen her in years until she relocated to New York because she got a job working for director Martin Scorsese. I can still hear her chastising me for mispronouncing his last name. “It’s ScorSESSY, not ScorSAZY.” Rude.

Melanie arrived at the club that night with two men. After my set I hung out at her table and we started to catch up but one of the guys kept interrupting her so he could talk to me. He was annoying and kept touching my arm and I rolled my eyes at Melanie who appeared not to get the Girl Eye Roll. Maybe they didn’t have that in London. I finally gave up trying to talk to her and asked Annoying what he did for a living and he said he worked for Werner Herzog, the German film director. I smiled and said ‘that’s nice’ as Melanie glared at me. Londoners don’t get the Girl Eye Roll but feel perfectly fine shooting you The Girl Glare? Eventually Annoying went to the bathroom while the other guy went to get us more drinks.

“Who is this moron?” I asked Melanie.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh my God I’m sorry, is he your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s not my boyfriend. What’s wrong with you?” she hissed from across the table.
“Me? What’s wrong with him? I mean look at him, look at me. As if I would give a guy like that the time of day. Why won’t he stop touching me?”
“Well maybe because fifteen years ago you slept with him in London.”

Oh. Well if you’re going to count that, fine.

Sidebar: I can hear you judging me from here. Like you never forgot the face of a person you slept with. Or their name. Or in what country you slept with them.


Nine years ago I remembered the story of Annoying because nine years ago was the last time I smoked pot. I had given up alcohol a few months prior to that and apparently was not entirely clear on the meaning of sobriety. I was having dinner in my neighborhood with a girlfriend when a couple of guys asked to join us. The one who sat down next to me seemed familiar which made me flash back to Annoying in New York.

Familiar lived a block further down the street than I did so he offered to walk me home after dinner. He knew a lot about art and since I collected it, I invited him upstairs to see what I owned. Familiar flipped through my CDs, put something on the stereo and then brought out a baggie of weed. I liked the guy but hoped he wasn’t a pothead like my friend Ken, who lives up the street. Ken is a musician who doesn’t get gigs and who smokes dope for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If parents want to show their kids how potheads never get ahead in life, they need to buy them tickets to see Ken.

Familiar was getting over a bad break-up; his girlfriend had left him for his best friend. He was so sad that it prompted me to tell him that I was having trouble getting over Elvis, the love of my life. As we commiserated, he extended the joint he had just rolled and I took a hit. Within seconds I took another hit because the first hit always fools you into thinking you might not get high and God forbid you shouldn’t get high in one point two seconds. We talked for a while but then, like with all good pot, we started to laugh. I’m sure it was about something really funny, like how air conditioning works. Suddenly Familiar leaned in to kiss me and I pulled my head back.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. I just stared at him so he tried to kiss me again but this time I turned my head away at the last minute.
“Your face, has it…has it always… been like… that?” I sputtered.
“What?”
“Is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Dude, how high are you?”
“Just answer the question, is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Okaaay, here’s the deal. I’ve had this face since I was born; only it was a lot smaller. But since the restaurant? Yes, this is the same face I’ve had since the restaurant.”

And then it hit me. No wonder the guy seemed familiar. He looked exactly like Elvis. I was about to kiss a facsimile of a man I wasn’t getting over. Great.

I didn’t kiss Familiar and never smoked pot again.

You’re all sitting there trying to think of everyone you slept with, aren’t you? Admit it; a couple of those faces are pretty blurry aren’t they?